My Division
by IdrisLady
Summary: Greg Lestrade is in love with John, but it's clear which detective John prefers. That all changes when Sherlock jumps off a building, leaving John alone. Rated T for swearing and death.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hello, and welcome to "My Division"! It is my first – ever attempt at Johnstrade. I know it's a bit of a cracky pairing, but it's been loads of fun to write! **

**I don't own anything, I'm not in this to make money, and all that jazz.**

**Enjoy! **

Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade had sort of known how he felt about John for a while. They spent a good bit of time together, as they were the only two fairly rational guys to be able to stand Sherlock Holmes. But when calling John up to go out for a pint went from being a casual thing to butterfly-inducing, and when those butterflies return whenever he saw him, it would have taken a total idiot not to figure it out.

But he hadn't really figured out he was in love the other man. It took Sally Donovan, of all people, to make him realize just how far gone he was.

They'd had to call in Sherlock and John for a particularly baffling case involving a string of murders, a soda company conspiracy, and the theft of all the blue socks in a block of flats. Sherlock had, of course, solved the case in no time flat. Who would ever have thought that the janitor was actually the father of Bubbly Wubbly's CEO?

After he solved the case, Sherlock made his customary round of insults, John made his customary round of apologies, and they both made to leave. As she watched them go, Sally laughed and said to Greg, "Look at those two, the way they look at each other. They don't even bother to hide it anymore, do they?"

Though Greg had the awful feeling that he knew precisely what she was talking about, he'd asked "What do you mean?"

"Oh don't tell me you haven't noticed!" she exclaimed, "I _mean_ John and the Freak, how they're totally in love."

He managed to reply with a sarcastic "Because you and Anderson aren't all over each other whenever you think we aren't looking. You really are one to talk, Donovan." But he felt as though he'd been stabbed in the chest (a feeling he had actually experienced before).

Now, Greg was a fairly easygoing guy. Usually he could accept it if the current object of his affections preferred another. But it hurt him more than any emotional blow he'd ever suffered to even contemplate the idea that John loved Sherlock. And it hurt him more, if that was even possible, to think of John with him, but unhappy. Maybe, he thought, this was what it was like to be in love.

Not that there was anything he could really _do_ about his love. Now that he was really paying attention, it could not be more obvious where John's interests lay (except possibly to the two parties concerned). So Greg went on being nice and friendly for a good while. He might never have done anything else, had disaster not struck.

**A/N: Mwahahahaha!**

**Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thanks so very much to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and/or followed the first chapter. Y'all made my day. **

Chapter 2

It was a fine, if cold, day, but Greg's spirits were already quite cloudy. He was facing an inquiry on his methods because of the whole Richard Brooks fiasco. It was entirely unwarranted! He was a good detective, he really was. In fact, even without Sherlock's help, he was one of the best detectives in the Yard. He was just human.

Sherlock's humanity, however, was up for debate. In all the time he had known Sherlock, he had never, ever gotten anything wrong. But in spite of that, Greg knew that Sherlock was not a fake. An emotionless machine, perhaps, and an arrogant prick, but not a liar. Never that.

Greg was sitting at his desk, basically worrying, when his phone rang. It wasn't his normal phone, which he had turned off. It was his only-for-emergencies phone which he kept on and with him at all times. He jumped, and checked the caller ID. It was John.

"Greg Lestrade here. What's wrong?" he asked, hurriedly.

"Greg..." John's voice was wobbly and choked with tears. "He jumped, Greg. He's dead."

"Hold on! Who's dead? What's going on, John?"

"Sh-Sherlock. He... he said it was all true, that he was a fake, b-but... he wasn't, Greg, he wasn't!"

"I know he wasn't, John," Greg said, trying to calm John to the point that he could tell him what had happened. "I believe you."

"Right. Yeah, of course you do," John said, a little less manically. "Anyway, he told me it was all a lie, and then he jumped. Off the roof of Bart's. They... they told me he died instantly, but they wouldn't let me see him. Greg, they wouldn't even let me see him. I-" the rest of John's sentence was lost in shuddering sobs.

"Where _are_ you, John?"

"At Bart's. The waiting room outside the mortuary."

"I'll be right there." Greg ended the call, and put his phone back on the desk. His mind was reeling. How could this be possible? How could Sherlock Holmes, unflappable, obnoxious, mad, _brilliant_ Sherlock Holmes, be dead? It made no sense.

He left his office, slamming the door behind him, to find Donovan perched on Anderson's lap. They were snogging quite passionately.

"Don't do that at work, it's bloody indecent," he snapped.

They both jumped up, startled. Donovan looked like she was about to say something smart or rude, but changed her mind when she saw the look on Greg's face. "What's wrong, Lestrade?" she asked.

"Sherlock Holmes is dead." Greg said, tonelessly.

"The Freak's _dead?_" Donovan asked, disbelievingly.

"What happened?" inquired Anderson.

"Seems he jumped off a building."

"Well, that proves it, then! I said he was a liar." said Donovan, smugly.

Instead of answering, Greg simply turned and stormed out of the door.

**A/N: Reviews = love! **


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Guess what? I own nothing. I sincerely doubt that surprised anybody. **

Chapter 3 – the hospital

When Greg arrived at Bart's, he found his way to the mortuary quickly. He'd been there a thousand times before, mostly with Sherlock. _Sherlock._ Greg's brain was still not really accepting the idea that the consulting detective was dead. It simply did not seem possible.

In the waiting room, John sat, hunched over, head in his hands. Greg couldn't see his face. Molly sat next to him, her hand on his back. She looked up when Greg entered.

"John," she said, gently, "Lestrade is here."

John looked up. His eyes were red and his face was tear-stained, but he wasn't crying anymore. Thank goodness for that! Greg wasn't good with crying people, and a crying John would have pushed him right over the edge. He was barely hanging on to his composure as it was.

"Hi," John said, miserably.

Greg walked over to John and squeezed the other man's shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He then turned to Molly, and asked, "Can I see him?"

"Not unless it's an official investigation, no. Only family is allowed. I _am _sorry." Molly really did sound sorry.

"My God! Family! I need to call Mycroft!" Cried John, leaping out of his seat.

"Sorry, who?" Greg asked.

"Mycroft. Sherlock's brother." John explained in a tired voice.

"Did you never meet Mycroft?" Molly asked Greg, sounding surprised.

"No. I didn't know Sherlock even had a brother."

"Well, he does. And I've got to call him. This is going to be awful."

John stood and went into the hallway, closing the door behind him. Greg and Molly stood in silence for a little longer than Greg was entirely comfortable with. Finally, Molly spoke up.

"I'm having trouble feeling sad, you know? It's like, my brain won't accept that he's gone. I'm not crying because I can't convince myself there's anything to cry for."

She looked worried. Greg figured it was because she felt bad for not crying. So he said, " I know what you mean. I feel pretty much the same way."

"Yeah," Molly said, softly.

At that moment, John reentered the waiting room. He collapsed in a heap on one of the chairs and slung an arm over his eyes.

"He didn't believe me," he groaned.

"Mycroft?" asked Molly.

"Yeah," said John. "He's coming over here. He sounds like he's about to loose it. Molly, can you-"

"Of course!" Molly cut in, nodding. "I'll take care of it, yeah."

"Thanks Molly. You're a dear. He – you may not know this, but he really did l-like you. He v-valued your – your opinion." John sounded like he was about to cry again, so Greg sat down next to him and put is arm around the other man's shoulders. Even under these circumstances, the contact sent electric shocks shooting across Greg's body.

"He was a great man," to Greg's horror, his voice sounded strangled, like he was also on the verge of tears. "And I suppose we all got lucky, because he was a good one, too."

At that moment, they all heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall. "That'll be Mycroft," said Molly, leaping out of her seat. "I'd better go."

All was quiet in the mortuary for several minutes. Then, Greg heard a shout. It was man's voice, a wordless scream of pain and rage. John looked up at Greg, his eyes brimming with tears. "Sh-Sh-Sherlock's really g-gone, isn't he?" he whispered.

At a loss for what to say, Greg simply nodded, and held John as he silently sobbed.

**A/N: OK, so I should probably explain Mycroft's anguish. In my head, he rushes to the hospital, freaking out because his brother is _dead,_ enters the mortuary, and sees a perfectly fine Sherlock sitting on an examining table. _That's _why he screamed.**

**Reviews are the best gift you can give! **


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Bring on the angst! **

Chapter 4

The funeral was too horrible to describe. The media had a field day deconstructing those who came to actually mourn. Hecklers stood outside the cemetery (they weren't allowed in) and shouted abuse. Greg was pretty sure John noticed none of this. He was wrapped up in a little cocoon of grief, oblivious to the rest of the world.

That night, John got drunk. He got drunk the next night, too, and the one after that. He stopped showing up to work. Sarah kept him on as long as she could, but eventually she had to let him go. He spent his pension on booze, and stopped talking to most of his friends, or seeing his therapist.

He stayed in touch with Greg, though. Or rather, Greg stayed in touch with him. Greg, and a few other people, made sure he didn't loose himself completely. Mrs. Hudson let him keep his room for free, saying he was 'her boy' and that she couldn't possibly leave him out in the cold. Molly brought him food at least once a week. Mycroft, to the extent that he could, made sure John was looked after financially, and Harry (who got better as her brother got worse) tried to get him to join her AA group, or go back to his therapist, but he would have none of it.

He got better for a little while, when the 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' graffiti campaign first started, but he got worse than ever when the counter-campaign – the word 'fraud' written in purple capital letters over the 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' or 'Moriarty was Real' slogans – began.

Nearly a year after Sherlock's death, John pretty much hit the bottom. He showed up at Greg's doorstep one September night, confused and hardly able to stand. When Greg let him inside, he stumbled across the threshold and collapsed on the couch, falling asleep immediately. Plastered as he was, he was still so beautiful. Greg had always believed that people looked best when they were asleep, and John was proving him right. Smiling sadly to himself, Greg went to get John a blanket.

The next morning, Greg woke to find John sleeping peacefully on his sofa. He was caught off-guard by John's face. He looked almost happy! The worry and pain that was usually lined his visage were nowhere to be seen. But Greg quickly shook himself out of his trance. _John's probably dreaming of Sherlock_, he thought, ruefully.

When John finally woke up, Greg had coffee, toast, and eggs waiting for him. "Thanks," he said as Greg handed him a steaming plate. Greg sat down on the sofa beside him.

"You really shouldn't do that, you know. It'll kill you someday," he said.

"Do what, drink?"

"Yeah."

"I know," John sighed. "But..."

"But what?"

"When I'm drunk... it's the only time I don't..." John took a deep breath, "It's the only time I don't think about him. Nothing... nothing else can distract me from...from it."

The time had come for a shot in the dark. Though half his brain screamed for him not to do it, Greg leaned in closer to John and whispered, "Maybe there are other things that could... distract you," and kissed him on the mouth. Even with the uncertainty – was John going to accept his kiss or was he going to run away – it was everything he had dreamed of and more. It felt _right. _

It even seemed for a second that John would kiss him back. But after a moment, John pulled away with a jerk.

"Greg, I... you know I like you but... I'm sorry," John stood and grabbed his coat. "I just... I can't, not now. I'm sorry. Thanks for letting me stay the night." Then the door slammed, and he was gone.

**A/N: Yeah, I'm a terrible person. You should review and tell me about it!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thanks to all of you who sent condolences to Greg and/or John. I'm sure they appreciated it! And in case you forgot, I don't own any of this.**

Chapter 5

For a couple of weeks, Greg didn't see John at all. He was pretty sure he was being avoided, because the two of them crossed paths pretty regularly. But, since he didn't want to scare John away anymore than he already had, he didn't try to contact the other man.

So Greg was very surprised when he got a call from John, on the exact one-year anniversary of Sherlock's death. He'd taken a day off, his first in ages, especially for the occasion. He figured he'd be spending the day comforting Mrs. Hudson, and if he was really lucky, John. He was just eating breakfast when John's ring tone trilled from his pocket.

"Um... hello?" he said, slightly confused.

"Greg?" John said, clearly trying very hard to keep his voice under control. "You'd better come over here. I'm at the cemetery."

"Okay," said Greg, now extremely confused. "What's going on?"

"I can't really explain. You'll understand when you get here." John's voice shook as he spoke. He took a very deep breath, and then whispered, "Please hurry."

"I'm on my way," Greg promised.

Greg pulled up to the cemetery less than fifteen minutes later. When he arrived, he found John kneeling in front of Sherlock's gravestone, staring at it despondently. Then, Greg saw the gravestone itself.

"My God!" he gasped, "Who would _do_ something like that?"

"I don't know," John said, miserably.

"That's sickening, it really is." And it was. For spray painted across Sherlock's headstone, in a lurid purple, was the word 'FRAUD'.

Now, as a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard, it wasn't officially his division to go after graffiti artists. And even if it was, the police force had taken a fairly lackadaisical approach to the 'Great London Graffiti War', as some called it, because many of the higher-ups in the force had taken sides. There was no official way he could do anything about this atrocity.

Those are the facts that Greg chose to ignore when he knelt next to John and promised, "I will find out who did this." The unspoken "And make them pay," lingered in the air after Greg finished speaking.

"You know, I really hoped you would say that." Greg could hear humor in John's voice for the first time in, well, a year. "So, how do we start?"

"We?" Greg hesitated. "John, I don't think you're in any condition to-"

"I'm _fine. _I can help. I've helped him in worse conditions."

Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, so I haven't. But I will do this. You aren't going to stop me."

"I can see that," Greg said, wryly. "Perhaps it's your _destiny _to solve crimes. John Watson, Consulting Detective!"

John smiled, but then his eyes misted over. He turned back to Sherlock's tombstone with a melancholy expression and whispered, "Still the only one in the world."

**A/N: To those of you who got the reference, I sincerely apologize. To those who didn't, why are you reading my junk? Go read Alone on the Water right this minute!**

**And also review :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I apologize for any liberties I have taken with the procedures of Scotland Yard, the British police force, the geography of London, and a Cockney accent. I hope this chapter is enjoyable despite any mistakes. :D**

Chapter 6

Like any good detective, Greg had contacts, rather unsavory characters who would give him information _for a price. _Marcie Felt was one of those people. She knew everything there was to know about petty crime, mostly because she had done all of it. Since the Yard didn't really condone bribing criminals, and didn't pay Greg enough to let him do it himself, he had to settle for threatening Felt with arrests if she refused to talk. At this point, though, it was a bit of an empty threat, since the they had been working together so long they could almost be called friends.

So he called her up. "Hey Felt!" he said, once she picked up the phone, "How's it going?"

"Well, ah be damned! If it ain't the inspector 'imself! 'Ow are ya, Lestrade? An' 'ow's the wife?"

"We've been divorced for more than a year now, Felt. I could have sworn I told you about it."

"Lor, but it 'as been a long time, 'asn't it! Ah, well, I always knew tha' one was up te no good. So, Lestrade, wha' kin I do ya for?"

"I need help finding someone, strictly off the record, you understand."

"Uh course."

"It's a sort of a personal problem. Defacement of property? Anything you can do?"

"'As this got ta do wif the graffiti war?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?"

"Sorta. Fing is, the people 'oo fight in th' graffiti war ain't criminals, exactly. They're teenagers an' business people an' stuff. An' there's so many of 'em now, 'ow am I sp'osed to keep track?"

"What you _can _do, though," she continued, "is get a paint sample an' fine out what sort o' paint it is. Then I kin tell you where it's sold."

And that is exactly what Greg did. The Arthur Kirkland, the guy who ran Scotland Yard's laboratory, owed him a favor (a long, complicated story involving a master cumquat thief and the kidnapping of Kirkland's wife). Had the paint been any normal brand, the criminal would have been practically impossible to trace. They got lucky, though. The paint was of a very specific brand intended for fine arts, and was sold at only a couple of swanky art stores in London's nicer neighborhoods.

John and Greg went to all seven stores and interviewed the employees. Three didn't carry the specific shade. The manager of one store refused to talk to them, so they just had to hope their malefactor hadn't shopped there. Two hadn't sold any spray paint at all in months (of these, one hadn't sold _anything_ in months and was on the verge of going out of business). However, at the last store they visited, they found a lead.

They met the manager, a snobby looking man with slicked back hair, in his office at the back of the store. To say he was happy to help would have been a ridiculous understatement.

"You're with Scotland Yard? Please, tell me what it is I can assist you with. I _live _to serve!" he proclaimed, bowing low.

"Um..." John began, a little perplexed, "we were wondering if anybody bought purple spray paint at your store in the past few weeks."

"Somebody did indeed! I remember because it was young Benjamin, and he never buys anything but acrylics. But just last week he was in here, and he said to me, he said 'Sir, do you carry any spray paint?' and I told him that we did, so then he-"

"Thanks," Greg said, cutting off the manager's monologue. "Where exactly could we find this Benjamin?"

"Why, I have his address right here! He often has his orders delivered to his house. He's a very good customer, sirs, a _very_ good customer! But I always knew he would turn out no good. I've tried to warn him! Just the other day I said to him, 'Benjamin,' I said, 'one of these days-'"

"Yes, thank you very much," John cut in, "but if we could _see_ this address..."

"Oh, of course! Here you are!" the manager handed Greg a slip of paper with an address written on it. "Is there _anything_ else I can do for you, sirs?"

"Um, no, thanks. That'll be all," Greg said, and hastily exited the building. John followed closely behind.

The moment the door to the art store closed, both men burst out laughing. "And to think... I usually... have trouble... getting people... to _talk_!" Greg choked out between guffaws.

"I know! He just wouldn't shut up!" John chortled.

When they recovered, John sighed, and said "I haven't laughed that hard since... a long time ago."

Greg knew what he meant. He hadn't laughed since before Sherlock died. For a minute or two he was at a loss for what to say. Then, he uncomfortably broke the silence.

"Benjamin Cutting, 34 Rochester Street. That's only a few blocks away! But... it's sort of getting late."

"No. Let's go," John said, firmly. "I want to get this over with."


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Again, I apologize for any liberties I've taken with London and it's police system. I hope you enjoy it anyway!**

Chapter 7

Benjamin Cutting lived in a large house on a quiet street in Hammersmith. When he answered the door, he was wearing a smart suit with a light blue tie that exactly matched his irises. His hair was a very dark shade of brown, making his eerily pale eyes stand out more.

Greg held up his badge. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, of Scotland Yard. And this is Dr. Watson. May we speak with you for a moment?"

"Um...of course. Come in." He led them into a nicely-furnished sitting room. "May I get you gentlemen some tea?"

"No, thanks," said John, who was clearly working very hard to remain polite.

"We've got a few questions," began Greg.

"Of course you do. Go on ahead." Cutting gestured for him to start.

"Right... We understand you frequent Atlantis Art, a few blocks away. Are you a professional artist?"

"No. Painting's just my hobby. I'm an accountant."

"I see. Have you been experimenting with spray paint?"

"Spray paint? Inspector, be straight with me. What's this all about?"

Greg sighed, and glanced at John, who shrugged. "We believe you may have vandalized-"

"Desecrated," John cut in.

"-the final resting place of Sherlock Holmes," Greg finished.

To Greg's great surprise, Cutting began to laugh. "Oh, is that it?" he chuckled, "You had me worried for a moment there. I thought you were talking about something _serious_." As he wiped tears of mirth from his eyes, he continued, "Yes, I'll admit to that. Holmes was a fraud, and someone has to teach the nutters who believe otherwise a lesson."

Suddenly, John sprang to his feet, fists clenched. "Sherlock Holmes was a great man!" he spat, "And you, you little brat, you're not even fit to speak his name!"

"Benjamin Cutting, you are under arrest for vandalism and libel." Greg said, standing and pulling out his cuffs. "Now hold on just a minute while I get a car. John, do you mind?" he asked, holding out the handcuffs.

"Not at all," the doctor replied, taking them and proceeding to to lock them about Cutting's wrists.

Greg pulled out his phone and dialed the number for the nearest police office. "Allison? It's Greg. I need a car. Yeah, I know it's really irregular, but... I'll pay you back sometime soon, okay? Thanks, Allie, you're the best." He gave her the address and hung up. "Someone will be here in just a minute. Let's wait outside."

The police car pulled up, sirens wailing, less than ten minuted later. Cutting was loaded into the car, and sped off the the station, leaving Greg and John alone. John sighed.

"You know, a year ago I would have broken that little twerp's nose. What's wrong with me? I _need _to get a grip! I've fallen apart, Greg. I've got to get myself back together."

"Well, you don't need to convince me of that!" Greg grinned.

"Thank you so much for all your help, Greg. I think... I would have been a lot worse off without you. And Greg," John said, suddenly very serious, "I'm not ready for any sort of... relationship... just now. But maybe someday?"

"Someday." Greg smiled. "I can live with that."

**A/N: I ended a chapter happily for once! Don't worry, it won't stay that way. :D **


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long. It is the long-dreaded (by me, at least) 'happy chapter'. Happiness is not my strong suit. **

**Enjoy!**

Chapter 8

"Someday" came a lot sooner than Greg expected. Over the course of the past six months, John had improved dramatically. Not that it hadn't been a struggle. There had been lots of tears (only a few of them John's), several relapses, and lots and lots of hard work and patience, but it had paid off. John had been sober for nearly a month.

Greg's work was going really smoothly, as well. Sherlock Holmes would have called all of the puzzles he'd been presented with lately 'dull', but to Greg they were solvable, which was only a boon to him. John had come along on a few of the more difficult cases, and while he was no Holmes, he understood the fallen detective's methods better than anyone else.

It was after one of these cases that 'someday' finally arrived. The whole crew had gone to some Greek food place to celebrate (under normal circumstances they would have gone for drinks, but they'd foregone alcohol for John's sake). Everyone was cheerful, triumphant. They'd caught the guy just before he killed his third victim, so they all felt a bit like superheros.

The restaurant was classy, dimly lit, and sort of romantic. Greg didn't notice the last attribute for a very long time, but as, one by one, the detectives and scientists on the case left, and he and John were closer to being alone, the coziness of the place became more and more apparent. Finally, Donovan and Anderson departed, hand in hand, leaving the two of them alone.

There could be many reasons for what happened next. It might have been the romantic atmosphere, the good food, or the sappy music that was playing. It might have been the feeling that they could do anything they wanted to do. But whatever the reason was, Greg was not quite prepared for it.

John leaned in closer to him, smiling widely. "This has been really fun. We should do it again sometime. Only... just the two of us, next time."

"John," Greg said, teasingly, "are you asking me on a date?"

"What do you think?" John smirked. Then, he leaned the rest of the way forward and kissed Greg on the mouth.

It was a quick, chaste kiss, but Greg was still glad he was sitting down. He was pretty sure his legs wouldn't have supported him at that point.

There was really nothing Greg wanted to do more than keep on kissing the doctor before him, but he held himself back. _Don't pressure him, don't pressure him, don't pressure him, _he repeated in his head.

"I'll call you tomorrow. 'Night!" John said, cheerfully. Then, he stood and, grinning, left the restaurant, leaving a very confused Greg in his wake.

The next morning, a Saturday, Greg's phone rang. He picked it up quickly, thinking it was John. "Hello?"

"Mornin', sunshine!" a female voice cheered in his ear.

"Wha... Donovan? Why are you calling me?"

"_I_ want to hear what happened between _you_ and the good doctor last night."

"Okay, um, first off, _nothing _happened, and second, how is it any of your business?"

"I was just curious, geez!"

"Well, _nothing happened._ Now bugger off!" Greg snapped his phone shut, feeling grouchy, and a wee bit guilty. He wasn't really _that_ angry with Donovan. It was just, he'd gotten his hopes up that John would call him. And, of course, it was obnoxious of Donovan to pry like that.

Greg's phone rang again. He sighed, and picked it up, figuring Donovan had called him back. "I thought I told you to bugger off!" he snapped.

"Um...okay?" said John on the other end, plainly very confused.

"Oh my God John! I'm so sorry! I thought you were Donovan! She just called," Greg explained, hurriedly.

"Erm... that's alright. So, uh, I guess you want to know what last night was all about."

"Yeah, that'd be good."

Greg could hear John inhale deeply. "Okay, disclaimer first. I'm not sure that I'm in love with you, but I am... I do want to be with you. That is, if you're, um, still interested." When Greg didn't reply immediately (he was speechless), John backpedaled, saying "If you're not, that's totally fine. I mean, I'd understand if-"

"Tonight," said Greg.

"What?"

"Let's go out tonight." Greg paused and, realizing that he wasn't being very clear, added, "I am still interested. I would love to go out with you. How's seven?"

"Seven's great!" John said, a little taken aback. "I'll call you later, I guess. We'll pick out a restaurant then."

"Fantastic! Well, um, goodbye."

"Bye."

"Bye."

"Greg," John laughed, "are you going to hang up the phone, or shall I?"

"Oh! Uh, I will. Bye." Greg closed his phone, and sighed. The universe was sometimes a beautiful place to live.

Their date that night went really well, so they went out the next night, and the night after that. Soon, Greg began to get this feeling. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, and it was bothering him. It wasn't for several months that he figured it out.

He was walking home from work, and passed the office of a psychiatrist. In the window, a flier hung, with the heading "Are You Happy?" Greg thought about that for a minute, and came to a realization that he was. _That_ was the felling that had been bothering him for so long. He was, finally, happy.

He should have known it couldn't last.

**A/N: Mwah ha ha ha ha!**


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Greg and John were kneeling over the body of a murdered man. His ID said his name was Daniel Kader. He died from head trauma caused by a blunt object hitting the back of his head. Said blunt object, a fire poker, was lying next to his body. It had no fingerprints on it. The man's credit cards were missing, as was a safe key he carried around in his wallet. They knew these were missing because the slots in his wallet labeled 'credit cards' and 'safe key' were missing.

Mr. Kader, it seemed, had a bit of a memory problem. His shoes were labeled 'right' and 'left', and he had an extensive address book in his coat pocket, next to his cell phone. The assumption so far was that he had something of value in a safe (duh. What else would you keep in a safe, gym socks?) and the criminal wanted it, and so had murdered him and stolen the key.

Greg was not entirely convinced. "That sort of makes sense, but why would the murderer steal his credit cards? How does that fit?"

John's forehead wrinkled. "I dunno. Um, to throw us of the track, maybe?"

"Isn't it obvious?" asked a deep, cold voice from behind them. "Whatever's in this safe is valuable enough to kill for. Why would it be protected by just one key? The answer: it wasn't. The safe was double-locked; you need both the key and a combination to open it. This man has notes everywhere, but not one of them is for his safe combination. He's obviously very forgetful, and forgetful people try to have as few things as possible to remember. So, he keeps all his combinations the same. He has to remember his credit card number anyway, so he sets his different accounts up so that's the only number he needs. Even _you_, Lestrade, could surely have figured that out. The murderer has all that he needs to open the safe. I hope you've got his address."

During this tirade of logic, both Greg and John had whirled around, and were staring, open-mouthed, at the intruder.

"Sherlock?" John whispered, the color draining from his face, "You're alive."

Sherlock Holmes, alive and well, arched one eyebrow. "So it seems."

John swayed a bit, and Greg gripped his shoulder, steadying him. "Do you need to sit down?"

John shook his head. "No. I'm alright."

"Okay..." Greg hesitated. "I'll go get you a cup of water. I could use one myself, actually."

"No, I'll get it." John smiled. "I'm sure you two want to be all detective-y." He turned and walked off.

The moment John was out of sight, Greg turned to Sherlock and punched him as hard as he could in the face. Sherlock stumbled backwards, rubbing his jaw. "What was that for?" he asked.

"Three years," Greg growled. "You were gone _three years!___John completely fell apart. How could you _do_ something like that to him?" Greg bit back the words _I thought you loved him as much as I do_, though he wasn't sure why.

"I... I thought he'd be alright." Sherlock seemed entirely taken aback by this turn of events. "I thought he'd get over it."

"_Get over it?_ He _loved_ you, Sherlock!" Greg's eyes started to water, so he turned away, and mumbling "I'd better check that address," stormed off in the direction of the cars.

For the rest of the day, Greg managed to avoid talking to Sherlock. He tried talking to John, but the uncertainty was too great for either of them. The fact of the matter was, John would soon have to chose between his two detectives, a fact that was obvious to everyone present, with the possible exception of Sherlock himself. One never could know what Sherlock knew.

Bizarrely, the safe at Mr. Kader's residence had only one lock, and, when Sherlock picked it, still had all of its contents intact (they checked the objects they found in the safe against a list of Mr. Kader's, and everything checked out). Sherlock had some idea of what was going on, but refused to tell Greg. Instead, he ran off into the gathering darkness, dragging a not-unwilling John with him. As there was no point in remaining, Greg dismissed his team and went home.

He was about to turn in when he got the call. John's ring tone jangled from his coat pocket. Greg nearly let it go to his answering machine, but changed his mind at the last minute, and flicked the phone open. "Hello, John," he said, trying his best to remove all emotion from his voice, though his stomach had twisted itself in a knot.

"Hi Greg. Um... I guess you probably know what I'm about to say, but, um, I'd better say it anyway." When Greg said nothing, John took a deep breath and continued. "So, um, I guess this is kind of awful of me, but..."

"You choose him." Greg's voice shook, despite all his best efforts. "You choose Sherlock."

"Well, um, yes, actually. I'm sorr-"

"Don't be. I understand. Go, be happy with him. You never promised me anything. I..." Greg took a deep, shuddering breath. "I want you to do whatever makes you happy."

"_Thank_ you, Greg! I knew you'd understand! And I _am_ sorry." John hesitated a moment longer, and than said "See you later," and hung up.

Greg, who had been standing with his back to the wall, slid down it so his knees were tucked up to his chest. He did not cry. He did not yell, or throw things. He simply sat and stared at the far wall until night turned into day, and he had to get up and go to work.

**A/N: Yes, I know I'm a terrible person. Don't hate me! **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: I am not entirely happy with this chapter, but I really don't think staring at it waiting for some inspiration to strike will get me anywhere, so I'm posting it anyway. Also, unlike previous chapters, I'm going to be playing with POV a bit. Greg won't be present for all the action, so it has become necessary to hop behind the eyes of others for a time. Don't worry- the next chapter will be normal.**

Chapter 10

It took several days before Greg worked up the nerve to make the call. In the interim, he'd seen Sherlock several times, but hadn't been able to bring it up. Finally, he felt he was ready. He could say what he had to say.

Greg dialed Sherlock's number, hesitated, and then hit 'call'. The consulting detective answered the phone after only one ring, giving Greg no time to change his mind. "Lestrade," Sherlock said, brightly (or at least, brightly for him), "do you have a case for me?"

"Not just now, no. I'm actually calling because... I've got something to tell you."

"Well, by all means, tell me then!"

"So, um... I suppose you know that John and I got together while you were, um, gone."

"I deduced as much, yes." There was a hint of amusement in Sherlock's voice.

"But, um, I wanted to tell you that we're over now, and that there are no hard feelings. I only wish the best for the two of you."

"Lestrade," Sherlock said, sounding confused, "John and I are not 'together'. I highly doubt that he feels at all romantically towards me."

Greg raised his eyebrows, though there was no way, of course, that Sherlock could see them. "Oh, really? Well, then, I'm sorry to have wasted your time. I'll call you when I've got something interesting for you to look at."

"Right. Bye!" Sherlock said, and hung up. He was currently sprawled on the couch, still in his pajamas and dressing gown. He called out to John, who was in the kitchen, making tea. "John?"

"Yeah?" came the slightly muffled reply.

"I just got off the phone with Lestrade."

"Oh? What did he say?" John asked, walking in with two steaming mugs of tea.

"He seemed to think you were attracted to me. Isn't that absurd? Why on earth would he think something like tha..." W_ait a moment, _Sherlock thought, _John's not making eye contact. He's scratching his ear, he's turned his torso away from me, and his lips are smiling, but not the rest of his face. He's lying, then, or rather, caught in a lie. His pupils are dilated, he's breathing visibly faster than he was when he entered the room, and he's sweating. These could be symptoms of a lie, or they could be attraction. Even if they are because of the lie, what could he be lying but an attraction to me? _This whole train of thought took Sherlock only a split second. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers. "You are attracted to me, aren't you?"

"Well, um, yeah. I sort of thought it was obvious."

Sherlock stood quickly, running his fingers through his curls, and turned to face the window. "Oh, _bloody hell!" _he cursed under his breath. Then, he whirled back around and collapsed back on to the couch. He took a deep breath, and began to speak.

"John," he said, "you are my best friend, and you mean more to me than anybody else, but... I have never been attracted to or felt romantic about anybody in my life. If I ever could be in love with anybody, it would be you, but... I'm not. I'm really sorry."

John tried to smile, and nearly succeed. "No – that's okay," he said, "I understand. I'm sorry to have made you uncomfortable."

Sherlock saw John's fists clench at his sides, and then, suddenly, release. John stood quickly. "I'm going for a walk," he said, grabbing his jacket and phone.

"John!" Sherlock called, "I-"

"I'll be back," said John, closing the door. He walked down the street and, as soon as he turned the corner, pulled out his phone.

"Greg?" he said, "We need to talk. Where can I meet you?"

**A/N: Reviews = love!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: This _penultimate _chapter is both quite short an quite painful, so I apologize in advance on both counts.**

Chapter 11

Greg was worried. When he'd talked on the phone with John, not ten minutes earlier, who had been unwilling to say what was going on. All he told Greg was that they needed to talk, and to meet him at a park near Baker Street. So, Greg had hopped in his car and driven to said park.

It wasn't the best day to be outdoors. The skies were gray, the wind was brisk, and the man on the radio warned of rain, so the park was practically deserted on his arrival.

Greg quickly located John and hurried over to him. He was sitting on a bench, staring up at the sky. Greg sat down next to him and asked, "John, what's wrong?"

"I've changed my mind." John turned to look at Greg, the corners of his mouth pulled up in a smile that did not reach his eyes. "I want you."

Greg smiled sadly. "Sherlock's not the only one who can deduce things, John. He turned you down." He shook his head slowly "Who ever would have thought?"

John's fake smile slid off his face, and then tried to reassert itself. "I'm serious, though! I really do want to get back together with you," he protested.

"I know. But... I can't do that. I always knew you loved Sherlock better than me, but it used to be, you didn't have an option. Now you do, and you'll never be happy with just me. And anyway..." Greg squeezed his eyes shut, and then opened them. The next words he spoke were so painful to him, he could hardly coax his mouth to form the words. "_You_ dumped _me_. You dropped me like a hot potato for Sherlock. And that was fine. But running back to me just because he didn't want you? I do have some pride, John. I'm not some sort of _consolation prize._" Greg stood and turned so he was facing away from John. He reminded himself that he was doing what he had to do, and forced himself to ignore the pain in John's eyes. "I'm sorry John," he said, "but I just can't do it." He began to walk towards his car.

"Greg! I-" John called. Greg stopped, but did not turn around. He was sure if he saw John's face again, all his resolve would give out. "Never mind," John said, quietly.

The rain began to fall as Greg continued walking. When he reached his car, he glanced back at John, who was hailing a cab. He sat down in his car, turned the key in the ignition, and began to drive away.

**A/N: Again, I'm so, so sorry. I promise, the next one will be much longer, and, hopefully, slightly less painful.**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: This is it, guys! The last chapter! I would like to dedicate it to all the fantastic people who reviewed this story, especially Eiffel-FL and thisisforyou, who have reviewed basically every chapter, and also to Claire, who read all the chapters before I posted them, and gave me the most positive feedback I've ever gotten.**

** In addition to not owning Sherlock, I don't own _Goodbye To You_ or anything else to do with Michelle Branch. The song is all hers. **

Chapter 12

The rain lashed at Greg's windshield, and he realized he should probably be paying attention to the road, but his mind was filled with thoughts of John. He desperately needed something to distract himself. Though he was sure turning him down had been the right thing to do, he wished so much that he could be kissing John right now. He turned on the radio. A clear female voice filled the car.

_ Of all the things I believed in__  
><em>_I just want to get it over with__  
><em>_Tears form behind my eyes__  
><em>_But I do not cry_

Though the sad tune only increased his heartache, Greg _wasn't _going to cry. He wasn't!_  
><em>_Counting the days that past me by__  
><em>The cabbie's rough speech broke John's melancholy reverie. "Yeh mind if I put on th' radio?" he asked.

"Oh, no. That's fine." The same song that Greg was listening to drifted in on the cabbie's speakers. John shut his eyes and listened._  
><em>_I've been searching deep down in my soul__  
><em>_Words that I'm hearing are starting to get old_

John realized he'd been asking himself the same question for three years now – Sherlock or Greg? It was time he answered it, permanently. Maybe the answer was neither, but it couldn't be both, _  
><em>_ Feels__ like I'm starting all over again__  
><em>_The last three years were just pretend _

Three years, Greg thought, three years of my life gone, sacrificed to a daydream that was far too good to be true. _  
>A<em>_nd I say goodbye to you__  
><em>_Goodbye to everything I thought I knew__  
><em>_You were the one I loved__  
><em>_The one thing that I tried to hold on to__  
><em>Greg had been one of the few constants in John's life, and now he was gone. John had let him slip through his fingers._  
><em>_I still get lost in your eyes__  
><em>_And it seems like I can't live a day without you__  
><em>_Closing my eyes, you chase my thoughts away__  
><em>_To a place where I am blinded by the light _

_ But it's not right!__  
><em>They could never be happy together, Greg knew. Then why was he so miserable that they were apart? And why did it seem he would die if he had to be away from John for much longer? _  
><em>_Goodbye to you  
>Goodbye to everything I thought I knew<br>You were the one I loved  
>The one thing that I tried to hold on to<em>_  
>"<em>The one thing that I tried to hold on to," Greg whispered, feeling his eyes water._  
><em>_It hurts to want everything and nothing at the same time__  
><em>_I want what's yours and I want what's mine_

How selfish could a person be, thought John, to want to have Sherlock _and _Greg in the same life? _  
><em>_I want you but I'm not giving in this time__  
><em>Greg was very determinedly not giving in, not turning around and rushing back to John, not letting himself even think about the doctor. Of course, the very fact that he was trying not to think about John proved that he was._  
><em>_Goodbye to you__  
><em>_Goodbye to everything I thought I knew__  
><em>_You were the one I loved__  
><em>_The one thing that I tried to hold on to__  
><em>_The one thing that I tried to hold on to__  
><em>Both men felt their eyes spill over, and wiped them with their hands, trying to prevent more of the goddamned tears from falling. _  
><em>_And when the stars fall I will lie awake__  
><em>_ You're my shooting star_

Though the last note of the song faded away, the line 'you're my shooting star' repeated in Greg's head. Suddenly, he made a _very_ illegal U-turn and sped off in the direction from which he had come. By breaking every traffic law he knew, he soon caught with John's cab, and gestured emphatically for him to pull over.

The rain was torrential now, and neither man had a rain coat. They rushed under an awning to try to avoid getting drenched, a strategy that only almost worked.

"John!" Greg shouted over the pounding of the rain. "You remember what I said about having some pride?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I was lying!"

"I'm so sorry for what I've put you through."

Greg couldn't really think of an adequate response to that, so he kissed John hard on the mouth. They stood there, kissing, dripping from the rain, laughing and crying. They knew that in the days to come there would be issues to work out, and jealousies to get over. There would be fights, and there would be tears. But none of that mattered now. All that mattered was now that they were in love, and together. That was enough.

**A/N: That's a wrap, folks! Thanks so much for sticking with me through all this. I've got some ideas for an epilogue, if anyone's interested. Let me know.**


	13. Epiloge

**A/N: I am sooooo sorry for the lateness, shortness, and sappiness of this epilogue. I wrote it ages ago but then decided I hated it. I came back to it recently and decided it wasn't so bad. I hope you'll agree. Thank you all so much for following me through this adventure. * sniff * I love you all!**

Epilogue

Six months later, someone who didn't know better might think that not much had changed. Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson still resided at number 221 B Baker st. They still worked together to solve unusual crimes. They were still sometimes joined by DI Gregory Lestrade. So what if John occasionally went home with Greg rather than Sherlock? That was only a detail.

The changes went deeper than that, though. They were evident in the way Sherlock and John were more polite and formal with each other than they used to be, though that formality was slowly dissipating. They were evident in the slight coldness between Sherlock and Greg, a mutual jealousy which both tried to pretend did not exist.

Some of the changes, though, were for the better. There was no more uncertainty. Everyone knew where everyone else stood. And there was love, of course.

Trust was slowly being rebuilt. Nothing would ever be the way it used to be, but it seemed as though someday soon, life would be good. Perhaps it would even be better than Greg remembered it.

**A/N: Goodbye!**


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